Monthly Archives: August 2018

Old tears are heavy like spent uranium rounds for a 40 mm chain gun. They have a half life of a million years. They are sprung from wells that reach to the far side of the womb of all life. The echo of their fall roils the waters of existence into waves of meaning grinding pain into the beaches of peace.

Old tears wash gullies into the bedrock of souls who have witnessed more than sunsets. Old rodeo posters make ancient bucking bulls cry cold old tears for torn cowboys who rose with dust scarred bodies and broken dreams from unremembered 8 second wars. All wore the clothes of defeat.

Old tears pour from each rock struck by every would be Moses after their verbal expulsions send yet another entranced dreamer into a mislabeled valley of hope. Old tears flood those deep slits with the heavy water of remorse and disillusion. No reservation required.

Old tears float weathered wooden boats carrying fishermen beyond fear colored horizons in search of one more net filled with immortality. The white whale swam in old tears. He cried them for Ahab.

Old tears fill watering holes in hot stinking valleys of death where nearly forgotten cuirassiers’ horses wander over heroes’ bodies from Platea, Ypres, Dunkirk, Saipan, Ia Drang, and other lost human efforts. The holes never go dry. The clouds rain old tears.

Old tears dry into the diamond hard foundation mothers perch their children on. Formed into crystalline jeweler’s loops that magnify the hope for a future they focus the light of the mothers’ souls into laser beams of purpose. All mothers’ tears are old. They taste and smell like eternity.

Hawks and crows. What does it mean when they are together? Do hawks own the air or do crows own the ground from the air? Predator vs. scavenger? Monarch v. jester? Do they live like pleasure and pain, health and illness? At times the morning mirror reflects Horus, god-like, eternal master of the sky; seeing everything from the cloud populated heavens and imagining that all seek shelter from our descent of conquest as we feast on life. Then comes evening and the dark mocking sound of life at a lower altitude; Corvus needing Horus’ leftovers when the altitude of life is history; the ground too close and littered with the scraps of memory from the power of the past.

Thus the Hawk perpetually attacks the Crow seeking to exploit the day and avoid living with the alternative reality. The Crow never retreats and defends with the persistence of time itself. Eternal aerial combat, symbiotic necessity.